Snff II
by onelildustbunni
Summary: The sequel to Snff. What happened after Laura and Julian left the institute, driven away by the White Queen? Read and see! And maybe review :: Hellion / X-23 :: Julian Keller / Laura Kinney ::
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Snff II

**Note: **As of yet this story does not have a title.

**A/N: **The sequel to Snff. You'll note that the way I tell this story is slightly different in narration style. A little idea I got at 2 AM waiting  
to take my next dose of antibiotics after reading Margaret Atwood. Holy. This story is also influenced by several other factors--taking a  
general look at the direction of childhood's end and X-force, for one, and noting the styles and tones. Another deep influence is the  
trip I've just come back from, which involved an impromptu 6 hour (both way) roadtrip for a funeral (the realistic roadtrip part of this).  
Finally, it's more of a serious tone because I'm really sad right now...I just left my boyfriend in Iowa after spending three weeks with him,  
and it's almost overwhelmingly painful :(

**

* * *

x**  
**chapter 1  
x  


* * *

**

**  
23:55 January 2**

**Xavier's Institute, the Living Room**

Logan pops the tab on his beer with a satisfied sigh. It has been a rough day, to say the least—he's seen some things he's eager to forget,  
as fast as is possible with his healing factor. Well, no—he'll never _forget,_ but beer will certainly help. Now there's a temporary solution.

There has been a lot of shit going on recently. A lot. Three little words—'no more mutants'—and his comfortable arrangement with the X-men  
has been completely upended. He's become part of a dying minority, instead of a growing majority. Fucking god damned kids of Magneto. As  
if _he_ isn't enough trouble already. Yup. Logan tilts back his head and drinks from the can, then regrets it as his senses register the sharp  
taste of aluminum. He reaches for the glass and tilts the can, directing the flow against the side so it will not be all foam.

M-day was a disaster. He's learned things about himself—so much—too much at once—he wishes he could forget again. He hasn't have time  
to process it though, because he is too busy trying to help keep the children alive at the school. Blown up buses, attacks by killer robots  
from the future, and then the goddamn abduction by H.Y.D.R.A., because he just wasn't busy enough already. And Daken on top of all this  
crap. Unbelievable—he doesn't need _more_ children.

And all of this he'd allowed to come before Laura, whom he'd solemnly sworn he would protect and care for if she came back. Of course he'd  
been in California with One-Eye when she'd decided to pop by the institute and abduct Hellion, as Emma spoke of it. The second he'd  
returned to the institute (two hours after Laura and the kid had left) he'd smelled his clone, and had interrogated the metal kid. Cessily  
was stubborn and stood up for her friends, even though she was afraid of him.

Emma has exhausted her resources to no end trying to stop her two wayward students, but Logan has warned her off with the threat of  
reshaping her face. He's told her no mind control, he'll take care of it. He hasn't forgiven Emma for making Laura unwelcome in the first  
place. He's even spoken to One-Eye and asked him to enforce his wishes. This whole deal has pissed Logan off further. Logan, who goes  
out of his way to be uninvolved with the social structure of the mansion. Logan, who doesn't give two shits about the dramas going on.

Fucking clone that has dragged him into the mess.

Yup.

Logan crunches the empty beer can. The kids have disappeared without a trace, as far as he can tell. Their trail ended in Colorado, on  
the interstate. There'd been some blood on the pavement, and bolts in the gravel on the edge of a cow field beside the busy highway.  
Going further in amongst the lazy cattle, Logan found a blackened crater-like area that made him think of a desperate escape attempt.  
He'd also found a buckle that reminded him of Laura's boots, and he'd kneeled in the pasture, fingering it grimly.

What the hell had happened there?

That had been about four months ago now. He's done everything possible, trying to find them, but the outlook isn't good. Logan still  
goes out every night, feeling it is his fault, whatever's happened. Feeling entirely responsible—not only for Laura, but now for the  
Keller boy. He'd known of the connection between the two, and he hadn't done anything to stress how badly relationships went for  
people like him and Laura. From prior experience. He'd even in a way encouraged it. And now Keller was probably dead, and maybe  
Laura along with him. Fuckin' eh. Logan sips his beer, then pauses.

_Snff._

He looks at the window—a shadow, darker than the blackness. Easily discernible with his night vision. Logan scrambles up from the  
sofa and runs for the door; the figure backs away from the window, alarmed. Turning to run.

God damn it! Logan hates breaking glass, but there is no time. He hurls himself through the bay window and tackles the dark, sopping  
wet figure; they crash to the muddy ground and Logan is now soaked as well. Fucking rain.

The figure struggles to get away.

"No you don't!" Logan snarls. "You stay right here! I've been looking for you everywhere, kid! You've got some explaining to do!"

Laura stares at him with a pale face and wide eyes.. Her hair is dark and stringy. Wet. She looks thin and tired—weary.

"What the _fuck!_ Where the hell have you been?!" Logan sits up, grabs the girl's shoulders and shakes her. "You don't just disappear like  
that, you hear me?! You're my responsibility, Laura, and that means _you_ have a responsibility to stick around and not make it difficult  
for me to take care of you!" He pauses. "Where is Keller? What happened to you?"

Laura's face wavers. After a moment she speaks.

"I could not stop them."

Then she crumples.

* * *

**  
00:21 January 3 **

**Xavier's Institute, the Kitchen**

"Here, kid. This'll put some hair on your chest." Logan plunks the whiskey down on the counter in front of Laura, who sits on a barstool,  
dripping water like she's taken a shower with her clothes on.

"Drink it."

Laura's fingers curl around the flask, her eyes dull and pink. She unscrews the cap. _Snff._ She pauses, the flask millimeters from her lips.

"Alcohol?"

Logan nods.

Laura considers, then tilts her head back and closes her eyes. _Glug, glug, glug…_her eyebrows draw together at the burn, but she keeps  
going. Logan raises _his_ eyebrows as he watches the liquid disappear. When the flask touches the counter again, it is empty.

"Damn…guess you're not a cheap date," Logan says.

Laura makes no comment, even though he is sure she doesn't understand what he's said. Whatever has happened is bad, real bad. Keller  
is dead for sure. Had to be—if Laura was this down—no curiosity at all.

"So what happened, Laura?" Logan asks, his voice serious.

Laura looks at the counter, then up at him again.

* * *

**09:21 September 9 **

**Best Western, Cleveland, Ohio**

"It is not too late to turn back," Laura says after wiping water out of her eyes.

"I know it's not." Julian reaches past her for the shampoo. "You've only told me that a few billion times. I've got the concept, thanks."

Laura is silent.

"It's going to be fine," he says, sensing she isn't at ease. "We can take care of ourselves, at least till we reach California. Then we'll find  
Mr. Logan, okay? And Mr. Summers. Jeez, Laura, have some faith in me, will you? I'm more than capable of fending off whatever is chasing  
us in your little paranoid delusion." He splashes her with water in the face, and she wipes it out of her eyes with a small glare. "Or is  
it a fantasy, hmm?"

"Julian—I am being serious." Laura sounds upset now.

"So was I." He finishes soaping his hair and blinks at her. "Well, at least the capable part. I hope you don't have fantasies about  
being murdered."

"No." Laura steps back and allows him to stand under the shower spray.

* * *

**10:15 September 9 **

**IHOP, Cleveland, Ohio**

Julian fiddles with the paper wrapper on the also paper napkin, feeling guilty. Annoyed. For the first time in a while, he is angry again  
about his disownment. The last five or so months have been so action-packed and grief-filled that he's barely spared his disappointing  
family a second thought; however, now that he is sitting here, in an IHOP restaurant in Ohio, relying on his girlfriend for money, he is  
angry at them again. Now _he'll_ come off as an asshole.

Then again, Laura probably won't notice. And if she does she won't say anything. She is quiet, very quiet—he'd almost forgotten what  
a quiet person she was. He hasn't gotten to spend all that much time with her, to learn her habits and read her moods all too well. Most  
of the time he's known her had been spent missing her and running over the events over and over again.

And now he is sitting here with her, exactly what he's wanted very badly for quite a while since she'd left…and he doesn't know what  
to say. Awkward. Or maybe only he feels awkward—does Laura even know what that is?

She is staring at him, and he feels self-conscious.

"Do I have something on my face?" he blurts without thinking.

" No." Laura smiles slightly, and he touches her hand. He suddenly forgets about awkwardness, turning her fingers over against his palm.

"We should obtain fuel after eating," she says matter-of-factly. "I believe the back tire requires air as well. I felt it deflate by several  
millimeters over the last fifteen kilometers last evening. I am afraid there may be a leak, which would cause unfavorable delays in the  
journey if it requires replacement." Laura's jaw snaps shut and she continues to stare at him.

"Oh," he says.

Laura is waiting for an answer, apparently.

"We can do that?" he tries.

"Okay."

The waiter arrives at that moment and sets down drinks in front of them. Julian is relieved—a distraction.

* * *

**14:07 September 9 **

**Interstate 80, Ohio**

"Can we pull over soon, please?" Julian yells against the wind. He yells even though Laura has declared it unnecessary (apparently she  
can hear him in his normal voice, despite the fact that she wears a helmet, as does he, not to mention underneath the continuous hum  
of the bike's engine as they zip down the highway).

"I do not wish to," Laura's voice drifts back. "It is not safe to stop so much."

"LAURA! I've got to take a leak! _Pull over_!" Julian is getting irritated by her almost militant attitude. She's done this a few times  
before—he's had to mentally stop the bike.

"But—"

" Take that exit," he demands, seeing a passing sign. "If you don't, I swear to god I will make us fly there."

Laura is silent; however, ten miles later, the bike tilts and she changes lanes.

At the rest stop, she doesn't leave the bike; she doesn't even swing her leg over the side, but stands at ready. Julian tosses his helmet  
to her and stomps into the small complex. He needs to walk, his ass—and his head as well—is killing him. He considers just grabbing the  
whole mess of Laura and the bike and flying them to California, but he doesn't know if he can handle such a long trip. He'd gone  
unconscious when he'd transported them from Texas to New York after Nimrod had nearly killed her. He feels desperate now—  
but not _that_ desperate.

After using the restroom, he walks around for about fifteen minutes, buys a package of extra-strength aspirin and a Pepsi, takes about  
five of the ten pills because his head is aching slightly from unused energy, and then he wills himself to return to the bike. He realizes  
he needs to find an outlet soon, or the dull ache will turn into a full-blown migraine. He also doesn't want to have a control lapse  
inside a hotel.

* * *

**02:23 September 10**

**Holiday Inn, Portage, Indiana**

Julian groans, face-down on the bed. He feels like crap—they've only just now checked in to the hotel, after he'd almost fallen off the  
bike in exhaustion. Laura had finally given in, then, and had pulled over at the next exit.

"Are you alright?" Laura asks tentatively. She feels uneasy; she stands at the window, arms folded, looking into the darkness. _Their  
enemies are out there and they should not stop. Now they are vulnerable to attack. Unsafe._ But Julian's state of consciousness is  
also a concern—losing his balance on the motorcycle could be fatal to him.

He hasn't bothered to remove his helmet yet.

"Julian?"

She sits down on the edge and lays her hand on his shoulder. She isn't used to this yet—being able to touch him, and having it be  
acceptable. Without him twitching, pulling away, telling her something rude. Perhaps it adds to her feeling of unease—it is a change,  
it is difference. As confusing as the circumstances had been to her before, she was been unprepared for his change of heart and now  
she is uncertain. She isn't experienced with this.

He sounds like he is asleep. Steady breathing, slowing heart rate. Average of about 64 beats per minute. Every seven seconds his  
heart exhibits a mild systolic murmur. She tilts her head. He looks uncomfortable. After a moment, she exerts pressure on his shoulder  
and rolls him over, then softly slides her fingers onto the edges of the helmet and pries it off without waking him, then sets the  
object on the floor, marking the warmth of the material. Fever?

Julian's forehead is warm to the touch. A temperature rise of about point seven degrees Celsius. Nothing for overdue concern—perhaps  
caused by the confines of the helmet—but still noted. She allows her fingers to remain, and then she moves them very tentatively,  
still waiting for him to push her away.

Laura feels easier when he is sleeping, when no reactions are expected from her and she can study him while remaining unobserved  
herself. She admits part of the unease is caused by him, now that she feels the relief. He is drooling slightly; she wipes it away  
with her finger.

Then it starts. He starts snoring, and she pulls away her hand in alarm, startled. She's been focusing on his face and was not ready  
for the noise. Laura also realizes he is distracting her—she isn't paying attention to her surroundings—they could be attacked and  
she would be unprepared. She sits up straight and wonders if she should wake him to stop the sound.

He rolls over and slides his hand under the pillow, unconcerned.

Laura finally decides to rest herself; they have passed the most likely hours for attack, and she can regenerate lightly for two hours  
(all that is necessary) before awakening her companion.

A few minutes after she's stretched out beside Julian, he wakes up briefly to wrap himself around her back and bury his face in her  
neck. She stays awake most of the night, her eyes wide open and shifting in the darkness, wondering when _they_ will strike. The  
uneasy feeling of impending doom, but she tries to ignore it.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **HOLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEY YIKES!!! It's been forever since I updated this story. I brainstormed and brainstormed, and finally finished the plot in my head  
to the point that I am comfortable posting chapters again. So here y'all go, enjoy x-D and sorry for the delay, rather give you quality than quantity!

* * *

**  
Chapter 2**

* * *

**  
01:40 January 3 **

**Xavier's Institute, the Kitchen**

"Yeah," Logan says, leaning on his elbows on the kitchen table. He's interrupted Laura's accurate narration to get them more alcohol. At first  
he'd demanded a less complicated version of the story, but she had insisted details were important, relevant. Then Logan realized she probably  
needed to tell someone about it. Women loved talking. So they've done some shots and she's begun to tell him the story, which he is  
thinking has a bad ending.

Laura is silent now, her fingers curled around the beer can. She has the distant look of someone who has survived something quite horrible.

"You want somethin' to eat, half-pint?" Logan asks.

Laura shakes her head. He makes her a sandwich anyway and forces her to eat it, guessing correctly that she probably hasn't  
eaten properly in days.

" Continue," he instructs her.

**…  
**

**10:56 September 12**

**A & W, Lincoln, Nebraska**

Laura fingers her napkin, restless. Every small sound makes her twitch. Movements keep catching the corner of her eye and she often snaps  
her head around, paranoid that Kimura or some equal monster is creeping up behind her, somehow invisible to her other senses. She refuses  
to accept the fact that Kimura is _dead. _She can't be. Kimura is a god, and gods do not die.

Julian follows her latest gaze direction, occasionally making a soft noise as he eats (mostly groans of satisfaction—Laura had refused to stop  
for about fifteen hours and he's only now convinced her to let him rest). The burger is the biggest, juiciest thing on the menu and he is  
devouring it as fast as is humanly possible. He has a momentary urge to—like a starfish—expel his stomach and digest it outside his  
body, for speed.

" What the hell is up with you?" he asks, having swallowed the last mouthful. "You're acting like you've got ants in your pants. You  
make me nervous. Can't you just relax for a bit? Have fun?"

Laura's gaze shifts back to him. She looks serious.

"I do not wish to relax. It would be a strategical disadvantage."

" Pfft. You're paranoid, Laura—absolutely paranoid." He takes a sip of his rootbeer and grins around the straw. "_Nothing_ is chasing us, and  
if something shows up, I'll send it out of here so fast it gets friction burns."

Laura does not smile. She studies her hands on the table. He reaches over and touches her chin. "I'm serious, I'll look after you. I'll never  
let anything touch you again. I'd die to protect you."

She remains silent. That is exactly what she is afraid of.

"I love you," Julian adds.

"I love you too," Laura responds, sounding unhappy.

**…  
**

**12:19 September 12**

**Interstate 80, North Platte, Nebraska**

The feeling of paranoia continues for Laura. She performs shoulder-checks, almost upsetting Julian's balance on the bike; he clings to her tightly,  
annoyance plain to be seen on his face. Annoyance is a common expression for Julian. There is just so much he does not understand—so much  
that Laura hopes he never _will_ have to understand. He should remain innocent. But innocent is dangerous, vulnerable, like a clam without a shell.

She switches lanes on the empty road, travels a kilometer, then switches back, even though there are no other vehicles. They are all alone.

A feeling of tension is growing for Laura, but nothing happens.

There—a car on the interstate, behind them. A red Pontiac. Laura shoulder-checks again, eyeing the car as it accelerates. She tries to judge if  
it is just civilians—or—she doesn't know what she is expecting.

The car passes them and is gone. Laura does not relax—they could be waiting ahead.

"I need to take a leak!" Julian shouts again.

Laura sighs in frustration, decelerates. Knowing he will not be quiet until he is allowed to go.

**…  
**

**13:29 September 12**

**Interstate 80, Colorado**

They are at the Colorado border when a black SUV joins the interstate and begins to trail them. Laura's fingers tighten on the handle bars, and  
her mouth sets in a grim line. She can hear it. She does not say anything, and Julian does not seem to notice. She is sure he will notice later.

"Slow down!" Julian shouts, concerned. She ignores him.

Ten miles later, nearing an exit, the SUV draws up alongside them, as if to pass. She knows that this is not its intention, but the motorcycle is  
already at maximum acceleration—there is nothing Laura can do. Except for one thing.

"Julian—lift us," she shouts.

"What? Why? I don't—"

"_NOW!"_

Her voice is serious and commanding. Julian responds well to direct orders, like most people, and a moment later they are airborne, sweeping  
diagonally across the field beside the interstate. Laura knows that's not the end of their problems—here come the helicopters she's been waiting for.

And something else that she was not expecting. Julian's grabbing his helmet, seemingly in agony, and they are tumbling to the ground at a  
very fast rate, descending fifty feet at a rate of ten meters per second in accordance to the law of gravity, without calculating wind resistance.

"Ugh!" His powers fail completely in a weak burst of green that burns the grass with an acrid smell. Laura lands hard on her behind and her  
claws come out even though she has not summoned them. She sits for a moment in confusion before her healing factor rights the shock.

"We've got to—"

She scrambles over to Julian who has blood running down his chin from the corner of his mouth. And his nose.

"I can't—there's something wrong—" he looks up as the helicopter descends slightly, hovering. Someone is kneeling at the entrance, a woman,  
wearing a plain white mask made of plastic. Similar to a hockey mask.

Holding a firearm. It's pointed at them. Laura throws herself in front, but bullets sweep through the grass in a wide, gentle arc. _Thrrrpt. _They go  
right through her body and the wounds don't close like they should. One nicks her lung but it does not collapse. She rolls over, trying to ignore  
the pain; the helicopter is only a few feet from the ground now. The woman is descending on a rope ladder, holding another firearm.

A buckshot rifle.

She approaches Laura matter-of-factly, holds the firearm to her cheek, and aims it at the girl's head.

"Laura—" Julian makes an odd noise, somewhat like retching. She smells a lot of his blood—probable mortal wounds.

Laura would react but something's wrong and she can't move. The holes won't close and she's cold.

_Blam._ And now she isn't anything.

**...**

**Unknown time, September 13****or 14**

**Location unknown**

Laura comes to much later, like she always does even though she's been shot in the head. She's in a place that smells like electricity and unwashed  
bodies—a cell. She stares at the ground with a confused frown. Her head hurts.

Finally she gets to her feet and limps to the bars of her cell, touches them with her hand. They are cold metal, dark grey. It is dark inside—but she  
can see them clearly, with her night vision.

_Snff._

Movement across the hallway. A head lifting. "Laura?"

Laura remains silent.

"I'm sorry…Laura…I didn't believe you…I…"

She touches the bars, studying them. Examining. _Snnkt—CLANG! _Her claws skip off the metal and hit her own arm, sending a momentary jolt of pain  
along the nerves. Her expression does not change; she steps back and calculates.

Metal floor, metal bars. But not metal walls.

_Crunch—_her fist as it begins to tear through the concrete, ripping through the supports and constructs. They made a mistake, to think that a temporary  
cell would hold her. To think that concrete could stop her. She is out already, blood still running down her skin from the wounds, being held open  
by wall debris.

She approaches the other cell, studying its construct as well. _Yes._

"Stand back."

"I can—"

"Do it."

Scuffles. She draws her arm back and slams it into the stone, baring her teeth as she forces her arm through. Ripping both it and the wall away in chunks.

Finally there is a hole, a hole in the cell, and she can see him on the other side, his face covered in bruises. "Crawl through," she whispers.

"I won't fit—that's way—"

"Do it."

Scuffling. Julian puts in one arm, then the other and begins to inch his way through, his face contorting in pain. He stops. "I'm stuck—"

"Exhale." Laura glances around. She keeps hearing _whispers_—but when she looks, there's nothing there. It's unnerving. He exhales hard and wiggles the  
rest of the way out, collapses to the floor by her feet.

She bends down and grabs a hold of his arm. "We need to leave, now."

"I know." He pulls himself up with her help, and leans heavily on her shoulder. _Snff. _Metal, blood, and Julian. He has a leg injury, near a major vein in his  
leg. If the wound tears further, he will bleed out. They must be careful.

Laura looks around them for the most likely way of escape. She should have done this first—examined their surroundings _thoroughly_ before adding a  
handicap, a burden to herself that may impede her. He was safe in the cell, for the moment. But she can't stand the thought of leaving him there,  
should she have to leave in a hurry.

"The roof," she whispers. Julian looks up doubtfully. "Laura—they _did_ something—I can't use my powers…"

Laura frowns. The metal she smelled. She turns him slightly and her eyes widen as she sees a scar with stitches on the side of his head, at the temple.

"You have been operated on."

Julian looks alarmed, and touches his face. "What? Where? Oh my god—I feel it, right here—right?"

Laura nods, then concentrates. "Later. We must leave." She looks up again. _She_ can climb up—with her claws—the walls are full of metal and if she jams  
her claws in sideways they will hold. But what about him?

"I can't," he says, following her eyes. "Laura—"

She decides they can. "Hold onto my back."

"You've got to be kidding me. We can't make it."

"Do it."

"Laura—"

_Snkkt. _"DO IT!"

Julian complies. Soon they are halfway up the wall, Laura looking carefully for each new hold where there are likely to be supports, deep within the structure.

They are three-quarters of the way up when she feels his grip weaken slightly.

"I don't feel so good," he says, his voice wavering.

"We are almost there." She moves them up another two feet. It's true, the ceiling is now brushing her head. Now for the hard part—to break through without  
disturbing the boy's balance, or hers for that matter. She takes a deep breath, leans into the wall and slowly releases one set of claws, then jabs it upwards,  
cutting. "Close your eyes." Drywall, insulation and metal rain down on them. She opens her eyelids and now she can see stars twinkling in the night sky.

"Urr…" Julian's hands slip; she has a fraction of a second to catch him before he falls, before he begins to accelerate at nine point eight meters per squared  
due to gravity. She makes it, her hand squeezing shut around his at the last moment. He is a dead weight, head hanging to the side.

Laura looks up; this will be difficult. Not only that, but she knows it is insensible. According to her training, she should simply let him go, and consider his  
casualty as a failed mission. She isn't going to do that though.

"Stay conscious," she orders. "I cannot pull you up. You will need to climb."

Julian leans his head against her shoulder for a moment. "Okay. I'm ready."

"Go."

Slowly he shoves his hand up through the gash she has torn in the roof and searches for a hold. He finds it and pauses. Just as Laura is about to rebuke him  
for not hurrying he lifts himself up off, his knee hitting her in the rib and knocking the air out of her lungs. "Sorry," he gasps as he struggles to pull himself all  
the way; a moment later he succeeds and rolls to the side of the hole in the roof.

Laura follows quickly after him with ease, her forehead wrinkled in concern. It is hard, but not _that_ hard; he is lying flat on his back, his face pale. He is sweating.

"Your pulse rate is increasing," she observed.

He doesn't answer, just breathes slowly and heavily.

"We have to leave. Get up." She takes his hand. It's cold and slightly damp, not warm and dry like it normally is. "Julian."

"Alright…" he opens his eyes and slowly sits up, wincing. "Damn…my leg hurts…I'm sore all over. What the hell happened?"

"We were attacked." Laura hesitates, then presses a hand to his forehead, more of an excuse to touch him than anything else; she is surprised that it is hot.

Burning hot.

"I believe your wound is becoming infected. You require medical attention. We have to go." She helps him to his feet; he sways a bit. She makes her way to the  
edge of the roof and peers over, afraid of what she'll see. Guards? Wire fences? Kimura?

Instead, nothing.

No one is there, at all.

They are alone.

Laura's hackles bristle—that can't be right. Where are the people keeping them here?


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

**  
x-Chapter 3:-x**

* * *

**02:23 January 3 **

**Xavier's Institute, the Kitchen**

"Whoa, whoa," Logan says. "Back the hell up. There was no one _there_?"

"We were alone," Laura confirms. Her hair and clothes are almost dry. Her fingers are still clasped around the whiskey flask, even though it has been  
empty for almost an hour. She needs something to hold while she speaks.

"That makes no sense," Logan says. "Why would _anyone_ do that? These guys aren't in the catch-and-release business."

"There were no guards. The facility was deserted. We—"

* * *

**Unknown time, September 13****or 14**

**Location unknown**

Laura limps down the road, half-dragging the nearly unconscious boy who is leaning his head on her shoulder, his eyes sliding shut every few seconds.

Something is definitely wrong. They have been walking for an hour, and are still in the middle of nowhere. There is only a deserted highway, and fields of  
dry grass on either side. And sand. Laura has yet to see a car pass. The air is still and cool.

"I'm thirsty," Julian says. "Need to sit down."

"No." Laura clutches his hand which hangs over her shoulder. "You can rest later, when we are safe. We are not safe here. You will die if you stop."

"Mmmkay." His knees buckle and Laura fights for a second to keep him up.

Laura sniffs the air. Still nothing, except for them.

* * *

**21:27, September 15**

**Providence Hospital, Sierra Vista, Arizona**

Laura takes Julian to the small town hospital, but discovers they have no I.D. Even worse, the head nurse recognizes her as a mutant from  
TV (a glimpse of her on a publication of the mansion) and the bigot denies them assistance.

Julian is delirious now, talking to his mother and his dead friends in turn.

"Brian is not here," she tells him repeatedly, until she accepts that he is beyond coherent cognitive processes. She remains silent and  
tight-lipped as she listens to him babble on about how he is sorry.

Laura finally lets him sit down in the alleyway behind the hospital. She knows what she must do, but she is afraid to leave him, even for the  
short time it will take her to obtain the supplies necessary. She will perform the first aid herself.

"I will be back. Do not move." She touches his shoulder.

"Okay, but where's the icecream? And what if the dog comes?"

"Julian, be quiet."

"But mom!"

"Your mother is not here."

"I want my mom," he says, looking at the ground. His eyes are glassy. She touches his forehead again, experiencing an emotion she  
understands. Wishing for one's mother.

"Remain here, and stay awake. I will be back." She leaves, doubting herself every step of the way. She must move quickly, and silently, to steal what is needed.

* * *

**02:32 January 3 **

**Xavier's Institute, the Kitchen**

"You knocked over a _hospital?_" Logan asks.

"Yes." Laura looks irritated. He has interrupted her again.

"Continue," Logan says, raising a hand in apology.

* * *

**21:35, September 15**

**Providence Hospital, Sierra Vista, Arizona**

Laura waits for an unattended ward; the opportunity comes quickly, as medical staff rush to the aid of a new arrival: a burn victim. She can  
smell the melted flesh, bitter like blackened toast. She slips sideways into a ward; there is an elderly man in the bed, with tubing hooked  
up to his nostrils. He is asleep.

Laura kneels and rummages quietly through the cabinet beside the stretcher; gauze, suture, needles…alcohol…she shoves them into a plastic  
bag she has found, then straightens. The old man is watching her with wide eyes. She presses a finger to her lips; he suddenly smiles and  
winks, and with embarrassment she realizes he has been watching her.

No matter. Laura smiles back hesitantly then slips out the way she came, trying to hide the bag in her jacket. It bulges but then again bulging  
stomachs on sexually mature females are not all that unusual in this hospital.

* * *

**21:49, September 15**

**Providence Hospital, Sierra Vista, Arizona**

"Julian. Wake up." Laura realizes it was a mistake to leave him unattended. He looks worse, and now he is shivering. She remembers her jacket,  
shrugs it off and tucks it around his shoulders carefully.

"I have water."

The boy stirs slightly, opens his eyes. Holds out his hand for the bottle she saw on an unattended breakfast cart, luckily unopened. She's managed  
to steal some toast as well, but she thinks it will be better if she takes care of his injuries first. He might vomit from the pain of the sutures, given his  
state, and that would be an impractical waste of food substance.

He drinks, his hand shaky, and spills some water onto his torn and bloody shirt. Laura reaches into the bag and begins to pull out the case of needles  
and suture; he stops, the bottle still at his lips. The water seems to have restored a little of his lucidity; he is aware that she is present. And what  
she is planning.

"You can't be serious."

"The wound must be closed. It is near a major vein. It will get infected, and if it opens you could die, or lose the limb."

"Laura—at least tell me you brought painkillers."

"They were inaccessible, too well guarded. They are also unnecessary."

Julian stares at the needle.

She pops a claw. "Your pants need to be removed. I cannot access the wound."

"Don't cut them—these are all I have." He makes a face and shifts, undoing his belt and trying to push the garment down, out of the way. The blood has  
caused it to stick, and he can't do it. He leans his head back against the wall in pain.

"Stop. You are making it worse." Laura touches his shoulder. "I will repair them later. There is a needle and thread."

Julian doesn't answer. Carefully she runs her claw down his thigh, separating the fabric of his jeans and revealing the mess of blood and severed tissue.

Laura is used to wounds—she is at home with wounds—but she is still slightly upset, possibly because she cares about  
the being this particular tissue belongs to.

She makes another cut, forming a large flap on both sides. She carefully peels the fabric away from the wound (noting his pulse as it increases  
and his breath as it catches), then picks up the bottle of alcohol and uncaps it.

"PLEASE—no!" Julian's eyes are open again and he stares at the bottle in pure fear. Laura is patient. "Your wound will be infected without it, and feel much  
worse. Tolerate the pain now, and it may heal."

Julian closes his eyes, then nods. She pours.

"_**FUCKING SON OF A—**_" he yells quite loudly, startling her even though she is prepared for a reaction. She is not unaware of the pain she is causing  
him, having experienced (and survived) alcohol torture by the facility.

She smells salt, and looks at his face. Tears at the corners of his eyes, from pain. She wipes her thumb across the lids, forcing the beads away, and gives  
him a small smile. "It will stop soon. You…did well." Laura is not used to praising people, but she is aware that Julian is comforted by such notions.

"R-really?"

"Yes. Try to remain still." She picks up a needle, threads the suture through it.

"This is going to hurt more."

* * *

**23:21, September 15**

**Sandman Hotel, Sierra Vista, Arizona**

Laura sits in the chair, watching Julian sleep. Having no money and no access to funds, she has snuck him into the hotel, using her claws to pop the lock. She  
only hopes that no one will rent the room (she has chosen an odd number on the top floor that is least likely to be rented, since there are vacancies below  
and this hotel seems to fill its rooms in numerical order).

She has sewn up Julian's wound the best she could. Four stitches on a severed muscle, five on another, and seven to close the wound. After the third total  
stitch, she gave him a piece of wood to bite down on, finding his noises of pain distracting. She wonders if she should have knocked him unconscious first;  
she is worried, however, that his body has undergone too much trauma already, and that any further would break whatever delicate grasp on a chance of  
recovery he has left. He is sleeping fitfully now, murmuring into the pillow and twitching.

Laura thinks. She should call the X-men—Logan. Would they help her? Emma Frost has made it _clear_ that there is no place for her there. Returning was a  
mistake. Julian is in danger now, and if she returns she will prove them right.

She doesn't care about that.

What she cares about is that the whole attack was so _strange. _To leave them unguarded, after going through all that trouble to find them in the first place.

To her, it signifies that whoever their assailants were _wanted_ them to escape.

But why?

To reach the X-men, of course. Laura can see that right away. It is a good strategy. That means that Laura will have to make sure they stay _away_ from the  
X-men, to prevent whatever plan their assailants have in store.

She sighs, leans her cheek on her hand, continues to watch the boy. She feels again that pressure—that fear—of having something she cares about outside  
her body, where she can't heal it. He is fragile. She is afraid she is going to lose him, like she lost her mother.

* * *

**10:11, September 16**

**Sandman Hotel, Sierra Vista, Arizona**

Laura jolts out of the doze she fell into, awakened by the sound of footsteps in the hall. A cart. Housekeeping. She springs to the bed  
and shakes Julian's shoulder urgently. They must not be caught.

His eyes flicker open, and he smiles slightly at seeing her, then frowns. She doesn't look happy. Then the pain hits him and he wishes he was asleep again.

"Laura—"

"Be quiet. We must go," Laura hisses. She pulls on his arm, forcing him to sit, and quickly tugs him to his feet, ignoring his pained expression. There is a  
sound—unlocking. She half-drags him to the balcony door; it closes behind them just as the room door opens.

She presses Julian against the siding, holding a finger to her lips. She's been doing that a lot lately. He glances at the door, at the space between the  
curtain and the wall, and sees the housekeeper carrying a rag; he does not make further comment. They stand in silence for ten, twenty minutes, Julian  
only standing with Laura's assistance, her hands clasping his upper arms. His leg is throbbing, and beads of sweat are running down his forehead  
again. His eyes are bloodshot—the whites are an angry pink.

After about thirty minutes, Laura nods and pulls the door open again, having heard the lady move her cart down the hall to the elevator. She helps  
Julian in, and with her assistance (and a biting of his lip) he manages to raise the injured limb over the doorsill. If only his powers would work, he thinks!  
He'd be able to fly and it would heal quickly. Or better yet, he could lie still in bed and bring whatever he wanted within his reach. He also wouldn't be  
squatting in a hotel like the homeless person he'd once accused Nori of being. Oh the irony. Laura leans him against the tall dresser, then surveys  
him, thinking too.

Then she makes that sound—_snff_—the one that brought them to this time and place in the first place—and he forgets what he was just thinking. He eyes  
Laura back, noting the ivory tone of her skin, and how thick her eyelashes are, and how full her red lips look when she purses them. Oh, and the curves.

Her green eyes stare at him. She opens the mouth he was just admiring, and the words that come out are…

"You have not bathed for several days, and you are beginning to have an offensive odor."

…not flattering.

Julian has learned to accept this—she is _never_ going to be thinking the same thing he is. Or if she is, she won't say it out loud. Laura is practical,  
strategical, pure logic—nothing like Sofia, or Nori, or Cessily, or any of the other girls he's come to know. If she observes something, she will point it  
out, even if it hurts others' feelings, because she doesn't understand it _will_ have that effect.

He accepts it because that is all that Laura knows. Before escaping her creators, she wasn't aware of what a feeling _was._ Because her creators certainly  
weren't. He doesn't know the half of it—he's sure—but at least that much is clear, from reading her mother's letter; so he accepts these fragments, blunt  
points of information, and tries to treat them like they are normal, with the occasional correction, in the interest of teaching her how to be more human.

"And what are you going to do about it?" he teases.

Laura isn't aware that he is joking. Her eyes are serious, her face straight. "I will assist you to cleanse, then remove the dressing over your wound, check  
for damage to the stitches, and bathe it in rubbing alcohol to clear out any pus that has accumulated. I—"

Leaning one elbow on the dresser top for support, he reaches out and puts a finger to her lips. "I didn't mean _that_," he says. This is another thing he is  
learning to do—to be confident about touching her without holding himself back. It took him a while to realize there should be no barriers, that he had  
admitted to himself that she was _something._

"Oh." Laura's eyes widen as her other senses fill her in. "You are seriously wounded, in an area of critical blood transference. You should not engage in  
strenuous physical activities at this time, including copu—"

He runs his finger down her face. "No fun to play by the rules all the time," he says. Laura considers this, then leans forwards slightly, her nose  
brushing against the hollow of his throat.

_Snff. _


End file.
